The life of a widow/writer on wheels.

Red

She’s a secret because she’s not out yet to her parents, as a motorcycle rider. I learned this a few days ago when we were discussing who we’ve told about our new, very fun and very dangerous sport. Me being a blabbermouth, I’ve told everyone. Though I did wait until after I secured my license to tell my 83 year old father, who (as I knew he would) proceeded to lecture me for an hour about the perils of motorcycles and how stupid I am for allowing myself to be seduced by the thrill and excitement.

His best line: “When you’re lying on the ground after the accident that you WILL have, my words are gonna be ringing in your ear.” I listened patiently while parked underneath a Ralph’s grocery store in Los Angeles, then told him basically that he might be right, but for now this is what I’m doing.

This is when my Secret Riding Buddy told me that she hadn’t even told her parents yet and that, besides her husband, the only other person who knows is her brother, whose reaction on the phone after she told him was silence. She told me I can’t use her name here, and can’t tag her in any pictures posted from our rides on facebook. I hesitate from even describing her, but let’s just say she reminds me of what Little Orphan Annie would look like all grown up, with a nose ring. I shall call her Red.

Red and I met last month in a Harley Davidson safety class, my second such class in 4 months, Red’s first. The teacher started off by asking everyone what they do for a living, and why they wanted to learn this sport.

Red said: “I teach ancient religions and I want to learn how to ride because my husband rides and I’d like to be able to ride with him.”

I said: “I’m a writer and my late husband rode a motorcycle for over half his life. I want to learn how to ride because he loved it so much and said it was the best stress reliever. One day I’d like to lead an annual memorial ride in his honor.”

5 weeks later, this past Saturday, was our first ride since that class. Our first ride not in a parking lot. We rented two Harley Davidson Sportster 1200’s. Red dropped the bike once in the rental shop’s parking lot and I dropped it twice on the road. Both of us stalled several times and I made two mistakes, which could have been fatal if there had been oncoming traffic. When we finally made it back to the rental shop, even the rental guy expressed his relief. “When you two left, I said I little prayer.”

We had survived. And we had the bruises to prove it. It was one of the best days I’ve had since my husband died. Much of the day I felt him with me, encouraging me, reminding me to stay calm. When I dropped the bike, I could hear him trying not to laugh.